Blue
by sleepy8hollows
Summary: Arthur Kirkland has witnessed something exceedingly dangerous. He's watched a murder play out in the midst of his unassuming Victorian London and the murderer, a handsome, angelic-looking American man, has spotted him doing it. USUK/UKUS
1. Chapter 1

_A/N [Edit 8/16/15]: just a head's up, don't look for historical accuracy lol. i'm basically just winging it as I feel necessary. hopefully you guys like it~!_

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><p><em>(Pray)<em>

_'Til I go blind__  
><em>_(Pray)__  
><em>_'Cause nobody ever survives__  
><em>_Prayin' to stay in her arms just until I can die a little longer__  
><em>_Saviors and saints, devils and heathens alike__  
><em>_She'll eat you alive_

_-Rev 22:20, Puscifer_

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><p><em>1: Painting a Murder<em>

Arthur Kirkland had never seen someone so lovely do something so downright horrifying.

The man before him was without a doubt an angel: refined, pristine features illuminated under the streetlamp, hair a gold Arthur had never encountered, someone so dreadfully beautiful Arthur could only think to blame his good looks on the alcohol he'd just downed. He looked fresh off a canvas, still dripping with color.

Kirkland staggered out from the shadows, maybe to reach out, maybe to get a better look? He wasn't sure what he would do if his hand met the other's face, but he was curious to see if the man felt as warm as he looked. He looked like he was burning.

His radiance alone was nearly enough to distract from the blade, poised and ready in his hand. Arthur watched in a stupefied horror as it met repeatedly with a woman's exposed chest, slicing into the delicate skin with hostile determination.

He stabbed with increasing fury, eyes narrowed and smoldering with an emotion Arthur couldn't quite pin. The scene warped in his vision, red staining the brick walls, red staining the angel's face. Red was all he could see and the last thing he saw.

He failed to notice two blues locked on him as the corpse slid to the ground.

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><p>He awoke to grey. Grey as things had always been and grey as they'd perhaps always be. The grey was screaming at him and Arthur rubbed furiously at his temples. He was hung-over for the umpteenth time. "To no bloody surprise," he muttered, rising shakily to his feet.<p>

He could feel a headache brewing.

"Why, this ought to be a new low for you, Mr. Kirkland." A voice—_too fucking loud—_rang out, luring him back to reality. He whipped around to meet it, straining his eyes to make out the familiar face.

Germanic features, steel grey blue—damnit all to Hell, he hated the color by now—eyes set under furrowed brows, thin lips tugged down in obvious concern.

"Ludwig." He returned.

"For a man of your profession, you'd think you'd have seen enough drunks to keep off the liquor yourself." Ludwig mused, soaking in the sight before him. A very unkempt version of the young man he knew. Green eyes aged far too much in comparison to his young, disheveled appearance. "You'll drink yourself to an early death, you know."

A carriage rattled off in the distance, a family of onlookers looking pointedly his way.

"Bugger off." Arthur began to pat himself clean, only to come to an abrupt halt as last night crept in on him, grabbing him from behind and filling his head up with gruesome images of a bloodied woman, her lifeless corpse held up and carved into in a wild, panicked frenzy.

He turned hesitantly, blinking owlishly at the empty alley.

There was no woman.

He kept watching, as if she may appear if he looked hard enough. Her or…

Or the angel. The beautiful, awful thing with the blonde hair and the porcelain skin.

Neither showed.

"Are you quite alright, Mr. Kirkland?"

Arthur cleared his throat, once again brought out of his trance. "Y-Yes, yes. Perfect. Now if you'll excuse me, Ludwig, I have a bar to open." He puffed out his chest, side-stepping the German.

He earned a sigh. "Just keep care of yourself, alright? It's one thing to drink and another to pass out…_here._" Ludwig motioned around himself, as if the alley spoke for itself.

"I assure you I'm _just fine_."

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><p>He'd come to realize that he was anything <em>but fine<em>, come nighttime.

He'd slaved away for the past ten or so hours, and his back ached something miserable. Be it from bending over constantly or from the night spent on the ground, he couldn't be certain.

He ran a damp cloth dully over the mug in his hand, wiping small circles just to pass the time. The customers (what little of them hadn't filed out by this hour) were content, sipping idly, nagging about their spouses, and eyeing Elizaveta from the corner of their eyes.

Arthur had hired her recently, and she did her job rather efficiently for what little he could afford to pay her. She cleaned, tended to tables, and provided adequate eye candy for the men coming in. Just enough to keep them pleasant. Kirkland figured if they were plenty busy ogling her, they'd be far less concerned with picking up fights with him and engaging him in chatter he'd rather stay out of.

No one would dare accuse him of being social. He sighed, continuing to clean.

He'd gotten drunk before, it was hardly a secret. Helped himself many times to some of the ale he served, right after he'd locked up. He'd tried to keep some form of moderation intact, but it had grown rather hard lately. And with each and every passing day, the urge to drink his life away had grown exceedingly more appealing. The bitter drink had grown sweet on his tongue.

He hadn't had an experience like he had that night, though, and it was beginning to gnaw at him. He'd found himself forgetting an awful lot, and waking up in odd places, but never had it caused him to have such a disturbing dream. He'd considered it to be real for a moment, but it was idiotic to think such a thing might've happened. He'd looked hard and there hadn't been a body. There hadn't been blood either. It was a sick, twisted dream and he was equal parts sick and twisted for having dreamt it up. Yet still it gnawed away.

He thought back to the man. The angel. Whatever it had been that had invaded his dreams. He'd found him stunning. More so than any of the lasses his late parents had tried introducing him to. _But that_… The thought of such an unnatural attraction repulsed him.

His eyes trailed over to Elizaveta. To her chest, specifically. He stared intently for a moment or so before ripping his eyes away and averting them back down to the mug in hand. Nothing. He felt absolutely nothing.

He growled under his breath.

Perhaps he was simply just too tired to function. Perhaps he was indeed sick.

He sighed, eyes trailing up to the pub door, watching with mild interest as it swung open and a man waltzed in.

_Here I thought I could nearly close._

Kirkland glared daggers down at the cup, scrubbing harsher.

He was perhaps too absorbed in his cleaning to notice the man slip onto one of the stools in front of him and it wasn't until the stranger opened his mouth that he was brought back to focus.

"Hello." The accent was crisp, foreign, and drawn out coolly. It was more than enough to grab his attention.

His breath hitched at the sound and he coughed, eyes trailing up curiously. "Ah, he—"

His greeting died on his lips.

The angelic-looking man from his dreams sat there in the flesh, an innocent smile playing on his lips, a pair of spectacles falling ever-so-slightly down the bridge of his nose and a stray strand of hair sticking up defiantly. He rested his cheek on his palm, meeting Kirkland's green eyes with two, bright eyes of his own.

They were the deepest, most intense shade of blue Arthur had ever seen; blue enough he could swear they melted away all the grey.


	2. Chapter 2

_Me and the Devil__  
><em>_Walking side by side…_

_I don't really care where you bury me when I'm gone,__  
><em>_I'm gone__  
><em>_you may bury my body__  
><em>_down by the highway side_

"Me And The Devil"-GIL SCOTT-HERON

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><p><em>2:1 The Puppet Master and His Strings<em>

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><p>The mug slipped from his fingers, shattering on the floor at his feet.<p>

For a moment there was nothing else in his world. The chatter subsided, dulled to a nearly inaudible hush, the world dimmed. It was as if nothing else existed or had ever, for that matter. He found himself increasingly dizzy.

Like a spotlight had opened up and centered right on the man, the beautiful (Arthur couldn't even fight the thought as it popped in his head, nor could he properly chastise himself for it) ethereal creature in front of him: all wide, innocent (scathingly so, tauntingly so) blue eyes and bright smiles.

The world was in grayscale but the blue in his eyes swirled.

Kirkland clutched his chest, his heart thudding rampantly.

"I-I'm so sorry!" His eyes darted from the customer to the glass shards on the floor. "I haven't the faintest as to what came over me."

Except he did. _And it involved the man in front of him slaughtering_—

No he couldn't think it.

A queer look crossed the man's face, but it didn't last long. "My accent does surprise quite a few." He dismissed, laughing. "_Don't worry about it_." Except Arthur couldn't stop worrying, his heart thumping painfully against his chest. His worry had little to do with the man's accent. He hoped his face didn't let his feelings show. "What can I get for you, sir?" he asked, voice less professional than he'd have liked, strangled even.

"Alfred."

Arthur blinked "Come again?"

"That's my name." His grin morphed then, the corner of his lip twitching into a lopsided smirk. "No need to be so formal."

"A-Ah, well then." Arthur coughed. "What can I get for you, _Alfred_?"

It didn't seem fitting. _Too earthly a name_, he found himself thinking.

"_Surprise me_," the man, Alfred, suggested with all the playfulness of a child. He leaned forward ever-so-slightly, and if Arthur was being perfectly honest with himself at the moment, it looked as if he had batted his eyelashes.

He refused to dwell on it. "A moment, please."

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><p>"My compliments." Alfred praised into his mug, gulping down his words with a hearty chug. His voice made Arthur feel tipsy.<p>

"So what brings you here?"

He must be drunk indeed. He would've never asked such a thing otherwise…If not for that man's damnable charisma, for that intoxicating voice or his.

Arthur felt positively _wretched _for wanting to hear more of it.

"Hm," Alfred made a thoughtful noise at the question posed, his eyes gleaming something dark, something Arthur couldn't trust. "Excuse me when I say I'm not fond of discussing my past."

Arthur said nothing, nodding and looking back down at his hands. It was all he could do to keep from letting his head flood with ghastly, gruesome images of this man. Daydreams soaked in red.

It was nonsensical.

It was...

"…Terrif_ying_."

Arthur blanched. "Pardon?"

"I _said_," the man repeated, looking bemused, "this city is _mesmerizing_."

Arthur's ears must be failing him; he gave a weak, apologetic smile. "Is it?"

Alfred only nodded, finger tracing the rim of his mug. "The people are, as well." There was something hidden in his tone, something hidden in his eyes. The look sent shivers racing down his spine.

"Are they?"

"Indeed, they are." His voice was barely above a whisper now, but his words rang in Arthur's head. "I'd like to get to know some of them a bit more."

His heart _hurt_, his skin burned.

As hot as hellfire.

He found himself leaning in. "Really?" His voice came out huskier than intended, betraying him, condemning him.

The bar had cleared out completely by now, with the exception of the two of them. The two of them and Elizaveta, whose eyes were trained on the man. Arthur could see her from the corner of his eye. She didn't look captivated, she looked fearful.

The stranger must've taken notice as well. "Well," he spoke up, with a bizarre finality to his voice, "I thank you for the drink." He pushed money across the counter, rising from his seat now. "Perhaps I'll see you again soon, hm?"

His fingers met Arthur's briefly, purposefully.

A promise this wouldn't be their last encounter.

And then he was out of the door before Arthur could bother to register it.

It was like snapping out of a trance.

"Are you quite all right?" Arthur asked as gingerly as he could manage, turning to face his barmaid after the haze had lifted. He hoped she didn't…

Suspect anything.

She looked drained, but made a soft noise in agreement. "I-I am…" She stuttered, gripping the wooden table for support. "Arthur, I-" She fell silent, her mouth closing as if in better judgment. Her skin was ashen. "With your permission, I feel very ill…I…"

"You're free to go home, love."

He gave her a hesitant smile.

One she warily returned.

And then she was off and Arthur couldn't escape the feeling that she knew far more about this man than she lead on.

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><p>TBC?<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N [edit: 8/16/2015]: It was brought to my attention that during this time period in England, many weren't Catholic...However, I'm not a big history buff (as you can see lol) so for all intents and purposes, we're going to pretend in this story that they were. (read: I'm too lazy to find a way to change it)_

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><p><em>Did that full moon force my hand?<em>  
><em>Or that un marked hundred grand?<em>  
><em>Ooh, underneath the water<em>

_Please forgive me father _

_Miles and miles in my bare feet_  
><em>Still can't lay me down to sleep<em>  
><em>If I die before I wake<em>  
><em>I know the Lord my soul won't take<em>

"Barton Hollow" The Civil Wars

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><p><em>2:2 The Puppet Master and His Strings<em>

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><p>Alfred slipped into his thoughts like a second skin, burrowing deep and rearing his ugly (beautiful, sinfully beautiful) head at the most inopportune of times.<p>

Arthur couldn't go a second (each second felt like a countdown, like he was ticking closer to the start of something awful) without thinking about him.

The idea of the man was parasitic.

Like a leech, he drained Arthur of all he had, dripped him dry like an IV, reduced him to a bundle of raw nerves.

It'd been nearly a week since the fire had been kindled in him and the flame burned hot. Burned like his body had the moment the stranger brushed his fingertips against his. He couldn't go on like this.

Elizaveta hadn't showed up in days.

_"Sick," she'd said._

"Sick," he muttered under his breath, rubbing his hands raw as he scrubbed. He appreciated the girl dearly, but even that couldn't keep the venom from his voice.

His mind had been working against him recently, twisting his thoughts into something awful. _She knows about you. She saw how you looked at him. She saw how he looked at _you_. _Maybe she was disgusted. He couldn't hold that against her.

If he didn't shape up he'd secure a spot in hell.

The stranger's beautiful features would lure him into damnation.

His scrubbing took a frenzied turn, his skin clamming up at the idea. Hellfire tainted his vision, sweeping him up in macabre vision of purgatory. He'd fall from grace for sure at this point. This is what his late parents were worried about. This is why his father always gave him stern, pointed looks. This is why he caught his mother crying at night. This is why she'd whisk him off to church at any given opportunity, why she'd nudge him when a girl his age passed him.

Why her eyes grew tense, scared when he paid each girl no interest.

He dropped the rag, eyes falling onto his red, peeling palm.

He had to fix this.

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><p>The inside of the church stood vacant. And for that he was grateful.<p>

He inched towards the confessional like it was the electric chair, tiptoeing towards it with lead feet and a racing heart. It was like walking straight into an open grave. Ready to bury himself in the dirt.

He slid the door open uneasily, his stomach churning and constricting, threatening to make him ill. He sat, awaiting trial.

The small window opened like the eye of God, raining judgment down on him from the heavens.

His finger lifted tentatively, doing the dance it'd grown accustomed to in his many years of Catholic upbringing. He crossed himself, keeping his eyes lowered down to his feet. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." He whispered, hoping his voice wasn't easily identifiable.

And how could it be? He'd steered clear of this place the moment his parents had joined God.

He wondered if they were watching him now, too.

The silence was audible.

He could hear the priest's shallow breathing; he could probably hear his heartbeat if he strained. This man was just as mortal as the rest of them and the thought terrified Arthur. He was stricken for a moment, the words caught in his throat.

_Priesthood be damned_, this man could expose him. He grappled with the idea, his nails digging into his skin, a painful distraction, but a necessary one.

He couldn't let himself be consumed by his dark thoughts again.

"Father, recently I…," his voice caught and he stopped to compose himself. "I've been plagued with…desire…for a…" He took a deep breath, readying himself. "Another man."

The priest's silence deafened.

"I can't stop thinking about him, Father. Forgive me, please."

"Such a thing is impure. Abominable. I advise you not to act on these feelings." The man counseled finally, his voice hoarse. "Three Hail Mary's."

Arthur sighed, nodding his head vigorously.

"Go in peace."

"Th-Thanks be to God," Arthur stammered, relieved to be out of the booth.

He felt like he was suffocating.

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><p>The sky was dark as he walked, a heavy fog blurring up the stars, making for a pitch black night.<p>

He felt a brisk wind twist about him, chilling him deep and causing him to clutch his jacket tighter.

It was cool for this time of year.

_Hail Mary,_

The streets were quiet, the people quieter. They'd locked themselves up in their homes, closed the blinds to the world, shut off the lights.

_Full of grace._

The alleys were dimly-lit, barely illuminated by lamp posts as he walked. Details were now hazy in the dark, like he was looking at the world in the reflection of a murky puddle.

_Our Lord is with thee._

He realized absentmindedly that this was the first night in many he hadn't had a drop of booze in him.

He couldn't find it in him to celebrate.

_Blessed art thou among women,_

He'd have to remedy that when he got home. Maybe crack open a bottle, an old one. He needed something strong tonight.

_And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus_.

He turned the corner, fumbling with the key in his pocket idly. He turned it about in his hand, clinging to it uselessly.

_Holy Mother, Mother of God,_

Red. His skin paled, the carcass of the woman was all his mind would let him see. The murder played back in his head, for it truly was a nasty memory that kept on loop in his subconscious at all times. He couldn't help but let his eyes flicker over to each passing street, expecting to see the gruesome scene again, like the longed for performance of a favorite play.

_Pray for us sinners,_

A scuttle behind him, a hitch of his breath.

He whipped around, expecting something, a scream threatening to tear from his constricted lungs.

No one was there.

No one at all.

He picked up his pace, desperate to be out of the dark.

_Now and at the hour of our death._

The dark made him imagine silly things.

Made him a fool.

Made him—

A shuffle now, definitely not imagined. An exhaled breath behind him, hot against his neck…

He ran.

_Amen._

* * *

><p>He'd made it home without injury.<p>

He must've imagined it, because there was no grand chase. He'd made it home alone and unscathed. He was nuzzled up in his bed, clutching the covers like some child fearful of the creatures lurking in his closet.

He'd left the hall light on (a fact he'd be loath to admit to anyone in the near future) and he stroked the worn pages of one of Charles Dickens' works (he had them all and had reread them each several times).

He hadn't even hit the bottle like he thought. At the moment he didn't want to leave his bedside.

The nightmares that night couldn't hold a candle to the hot breath he'd felt in the alley, warming his chilled bones and sending the fine hairs on his body at attention.

The terrors his mind could create paled against the reality.

* * *

><p>At this rate, Arthur would have to put out an ad for a new barmaid.<p>

His expression soured, Elizaveta absent for the third day straight.

The evening sun still burning high in the sky, the light seemed to give him the courage the darkness had not. He was up and at the grind again, doing his damndest to keep a stiff upper lip and act like a man for once.

The bar's usuals were in again. An albino was bemoaning Elizaveta's absence in the corner, chugging down twice his usual to make up for the loss; a Spaniard was discussing something heatedly with an auburn-haired fellow in one of the booths.

He filled up the drink of the hefty man in front of him, sliding it forward on the counter.

"I don't believe I caught your name last time."

Arthur jumped in his skin, head slowly turning to meet the owner of voice—the voice he could already identify; the one that swam in his head like his own inner monologue.

"You look like you've seen a ghost." The man accused, his voice as taunting as a boy tormenting his childhood crush.

He'd been ready to keep his feelings at bay; the priest's words still lingered in head. The only thing he could focus on was the man's clear blue eyes. The only words of relevance were the honeyed ones coming out in that cool, American drawl.

"Arthur Kirkland." He answered dutifully, gravitating to his side of the counter, looking the angelic man on eye-to-eye. "A-Alfred, was it?"

What a silly question.

Alfred smiled. "The one, the only." He scanned the bar around him, apparently pleased at what he saw. "I see your help is absent."

Arthur blinked before registering what he'd said. "Yes, she's…sick. Poor thing."

"Hm," Alfred made a noncommittal noise, picking carelessly at the wood.

Arthur paid it no mind.

"I think I'll have what I had last time." Alfred decided.

Arthur fixed it for him with shaky hands, careful not to have a repeat of last time. He placed the glass down delicately in front of him.

Like an offering of sorts.

_A sacrifice._

Alfred brought it to his lips, watching Arthur carefully as he took his sip, as if he were drinking him in as well.

_ Impure._

"Delicious," the stranger commented, running his hands tantalizingly slow down the glass, barely stroking with the tips of his fingers.

Arthur's throat went dry.

_ Abominable._

"Have you found a place to stay?" Arthur couldn't believe the words tumbling out of his mouth, but he couldn't fight them all the same.

"Are you offering?" Alfred chuckled heartily, something endearingly boyish to his voice. He slipped off his glasses, cleaning them and offering Arthur a front row view to those bright baby blues.

_ I advise you not to act on these feelings._

"I—Well I mean if you're in need, I—" Arthur began, only to be cut off with a laugh.

"I'm only joking, I wouldn't impose on a stranger. I've already found a place to stay, but you are..._awfully sweet to offer_." Alfred whispered, delivering those sinfully innocent doe eyes and spinning his finger around the cup's rim.

Arthur leaned forward, the priest's warning dulling in his mind, barely audible anymore.

"Perhaps I ought to buy _you_ a drink," Alfred suggested, voice lower, too low to be as innocent as his eyes suggested.

"Drink on the job? I think not."

"Perhaps I shall have to wait until close."

An alarm lit up in the back of his mind, but it wasn't enough to bring him to reason.

"Perhaps you shall." Arthur found himself answering.

Alfred grinned wickedly.

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><p>an: seven months since my last update omg sorry

contrary to popular belief, your reviews really do mean a lot to me. I saw a couple recently and that's the whole reason I buckled down and wrote this chapter lol

TBC?


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